It's A Classic Love Tragedy
by KristyLouise
Summary: "It's a classic love tragedy, isn't it' I look at him, smiling sadly 'I suppose you can put it that way.' District 2 Tributes for the 74th HG, Clove and Cato's lives have been torn apart, forcing them to endure the pain and torture found in love and wa


_He's left. After everything. Just packed his bag and walked out. She's a wreck. Dominic's there, trying to help her. Patting her back, rubbing her arm. Her shoulders shake as she cries, and the silence is filled only by her awful sobs making her body shudder, enough to drive me away, towards the sanity and comfort of my own room. I close my own door softly, being careful not to replicate the sound playing over and over in my mind. The slamming of the door. His footsteps fading into the steady beat of the rain. The quietness pierces my ears, and I find myself subconsciously picking up my knives, creating an unwavering rhythm as they lodge into the back of the door. My mind wonders to more peaceful places, where there is less pain and sorrow, and when I eventually interpret the knocking noise, interrupting my beat of the knives, it's too late. The knife has already left my hand, and the door swings open. It buries in his soft stomach, all the way up to the handle. His mouth forms a shocked circle and his eyes widen for a second, before he sinks to the floor, making no noise except for a soft choking sound. The thump has a sense of finality about it. My heart seizes with shock, and I so badly want to break the silence, but my stomach heaves. I am frozen, paralyzed by the sight blood, flowing out of his body, staining the floor on which I just walked. My vision decorates itself with black spots. I am blinded, and the seconds before I pass out from shock, I realize that she doesn't know. I hear her sobs. The rain. Then silence._

I jerk awake, my pillow wet from the tears, causing my vision to cloud and walls to waver. That ghastly memory haunts my every thought and dream, making me feel nauseated, every cell of my small and slight body burning with the guilt. The sun leaks through my half-closed blinds, cruelly telling me that I'm already late for what will be my last training before the reaping, later today. My bed groans as I climb out, my tangled hair itching my back, and the tears now dry on my pale and freckly cheeks. I lean over and open my door, which is adorned with holes that my knives had made, and leap over the mat that covers the floor on which I no longer walk. I gather my training clothes, and leap into the hallway, overshooting so my hands smack flat upon the opposing wall, the noise echoing off the cold brick walls, so orthodox of my district. I stagger into the bathroom, closing the door and once again isolating myself from the horrors that haunt my house.

In less than 20 minutes, I've recovered and dressed in my typical training outfit, loose pants and a tight singlet. Grabbing my knife bag from behind the front door, I run out onto the street, not bothering to leave a note to my mother, who despises my choices, my actions, my life. Even though I'm running late, I stop once I'm away from my sinister street, and take in the scenery, which still mesmerizes me, even though I must walk past this area about five times a day. Everything is so peaceful at this time in District 2. No cars on the roads, no kids on the street. Just the sounds of the early morning birds and the steady thump of my leather training boots on the blindingly white pavement as I begin to jog. The sky is a clear blue, and the sun, reflected off the mirroring stage which was in the process of being set up in our town square, bores into my eyes, momentarily blinding me. Peacekeepers swarm the area like frenzied ants, organizing and preparing for the event. Projectors form walls around the stage, and cameras line the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. In the center of all of this is the targets, a straight line of 9, for us to show the Capitol represent and the district mentor what we are made of. Later, I'll be competing against every other trained girl in the district to win the place of the female tribute in this year's Hunger Games, where 24 tributes will fight to the death, leaving one victor. This victor will be bathed in richness and fame, but will be forever trapped in the Capitol's games, as they will become the mentor's for next year's tributes. There's always a lot of expectations on tributes from our district, because we're trained and prepared for the Games, unlike those unlucky boys and girls in the outlying districts such as 10, 11 and 12. My mind roams wildly over these thoughts as I take the next left, crossing the deserted road. Slowing to a walk, I run my hands lightly over the cold stone wall of the Training Centre, feeling the groves and lumps that were so typical in the buildings of District 2. The heavy metal door felt familiar under my cold, stiff hands, and noises of deadly weapons hitting home in their Styrofoam targets were strangely soothing to my throbbing head. I enter the room, my eyes briefly passing over the wall to the far of the room, lined with weapons of every variety, before eventually settling on Cato, entirely engaged in his training. His face is clear of emotion, and his straight blonde hair falls in sweaty waves across his eyes, but not enough to hide the fierce determination and harshness in his gaze. I couldn't help but notice the way his muscles ripple as he throws, and how his lips curl into a satisfied smile when his spear lodges in the dead center of his target. Along with his naturally well-built frame, I suppose he was quite intimidating. His hand closes around the next spear, and is enough to break my train of thought. Immediately, I reach into my already open knife bag – It must have come undone while I was running – and in one smooth movement, grab a knife and throw it, racing his already airborne spear to the target. I shiver at the squeak of Styrofoam being cut, which was followed immediately by a heavier and louder thump, knocking the dummy flat on it's back, telling me that the knife was victorious.


End file.
